Ruthless and Rotten

by Ms. Michel Moore

  Kenya couldn’t understand why her sister was being so callous and coldhearted, but didn’t have the time to figure it out. It was only one thing on her mind, Storm. Keeping her eye on the prize, she finished getting dressed and left a disrespectful London in the hotel room to fuss, argue, and be judgmental by herself. O.T. had called earlier and wanted Kenya to meet him down at the club, so she assumed he had an update that he didn’t want to share over the phone.

  When Kenya drove up to the club, she pulled into her parking space. As she stepped out the cool, air-conditioned truck and into the sweltering Dallas heat, Kenya looked over to the empty space next to hers, also labeled RESERVED. Don’t worry baby. I’m gonna bring ya ass home where you belong, she thought as she got the door keys to Alley Cats out of her purse and cautiously approached the entrance. Before she got a chance to unlock all the security doors, O.T. skirted up in the lot doing at least 80 mph. He had the music blasting as usual; straight foolin’. Kenya, on edge, was spooked by him burning rubber and almost took a shit in her panties.

  “What’s wrong with your crazy-ass, fool?” were the first words that flew out her mouth when he got out his pimped-out ride.

  O.T. ran over to a visibly heated Kenya, picking her up off her feet and swinging her around. “I got some good news for you—real fucking good!”

  “What is it? What is it?” She smiled, temporarily forgetting about his well-known idiotic actions. “Did you talk to Storm? Is he okay? Hurry up and tell me!”

  “Naw Kenya, I haven’t heard from him.” He put her down, seeing she was getting the wrong impression of his news. “But I got us some more loot to throw in the pot, plus a line on a good-ass hustle that might push us over the top on that ho-ass buster, Javier’s ticket.”

  Kenya was noticeably disappointed that O.T. hadn’t gotten any more news about his brother; yet coming up with some more money would ease the load.

  They both entered the club after disarming the alarm and got down to business. He informed Kenya that he was gonna set up a meeting in the club on Friday evening. He explained that he could double up on some good dope that he’d gotten a line on and possibly make all the money they needed. Encouraged, Kenya took her notebook out so that they could add up the new figures.

  O.T. eagerly took 35,000 dollars cash out a shoe box that was behind the bar on the shelf and tossed it to Kenya. “Here you go. Add this.”

  Kenya reached for the stacks of currency that were crispy and smelled new. “Where did you get this from?” She was leery as she took another whiff, inspecting the bank-issued bands. “I hope your behind didn’t do what I think you did! Please tell me you didn’t!”

  “Dig this here. Don’t be so damn quick to always think the worse about me.” He paused as he checked his brother’s woman and opened up a beer. After two long gulps, he finally eased Kenya’s mind, answering her question. “Your girl Paris done emptied out her bank account and pawned some of her jewelry. You know she’s down on my team and yours and Storm’s! You know she got your back!”

  Kenya sat back on the bar stool, letting out a long, drawn-out sigh of built-up denial. She couldn’t believe that her best friend Paris would kick in all her life savings and risk losing her jewelry, while her own flesh-and-blood twin sister couldn’t care less. “Paris always is there when I need her. You better treat her right, boy! She deserves that!” Kenya pointed her finger at O.T., trying extra-hard to reinforce her words. “I ain’t playing with you either, Negro. You need to make it legal like me and Storm is gonna do as soon as he gets home—get married and stop running these streets.”

  O.T. guzzled down the rest of the beer in the bottle and twisted the top off another. “Please Kenya, you know I’m a damn pimp!” He yanked at his manhood and chuckled loudly. “Matter of fact, where is that fat-ass big-mouth twin sister of yours at? Why she ain’t roll with you down here? I got something for her!”

  Kenya got up from the bar stool, stuffing the money in her purse. With her keys in her hand, heading toward the door, she laughed at his remarks. “Okay playa playa. You best to stick with Paris. She’s the only one who will put up with your foul, crab-ass behavior you be dishing out. And as for London, I think—naw, let me rephrase that bullshit—I know that she is a little bit out your reach, son. So you need to push on off that thought. My sister don’t even get down like that, homeboy, so beat it!”

  “Oh, yeah—okay? We’ll see!” O.T. gave Kenya the side eye from across the club.

  Kenya was pissed with London for being so cheap, but that still didn’t stop her from chin-checking O.T. on his always reckless behavior. “Dude, go home to your woman with your ignorant ass and I’ll see you Friday!”

  O.T. was left standing in the club alone. Looking around, he started reminiscing about him, Deacon, and Storm playing pool and talking shit. O.T., feeling depressed, poured himself a double shot of yak, agonizing what the near future would bring. He knew that sooner or later he would have to end up making up some sort of a lie to Deacon’s only family member who he knew of. It was only a matter of time before that he’s-on-a-vacation bullshit would play out. How would he or anyone for that matter, explain to Deacon’s churchgoing, Bible-toting grandma that her only grandson was kidnapped and murdered, gruesomely beheaded, no less.

  The rest of the afternoon well off into the evening, O.T. sat in the back booth of the empty, dark, deserted club getting pissy drunk, smoking blunts. His thoughts were consumed with thinking about Deacon’s decapitated body that he and Paris buried in a shallow grave in the back of an old, abandoned warehouse and, of course, getting up on the rest of the money he needed to get his brother home safely. Like the true dog he was, once or twice in the evening he even found the time to think about running up in Kenya’s twin sister as a worried Paris blew up his cell phone, praying he was okay.

  8

  How Dare You

  It was early Friday evening and Alley Cats was turned up on total bump. Everyone had come out for the club’s most popular night, freak-out Fridays, which meant a lobster, crab, and shrimp buffet dinner along with a bottle of Moët with each time a customer got three dances or more from a girl in the VIP room. They always had a couple more bouncers on duty on the weekends for all the extra crowd that would pack in. Paris and Kenya were out shopping one day and came up with the idea as a promotional gimmick to ensure they got the guys to stop in the club and spend a portion of their weekly paychecks with them before they took the rest home to their nagging wives and pesky kids.

  O.T. was busy posted behind the bar, giving one of his constant power-drunk speeches to Dawson, the head bartender, on watering down the drinks in order to save a few dollars. Even though he knew that Storm or Deacon didn’t believe in shortchanging the customers on drinks, dances, or dinner, he let their absence go to his head. Paris, a team player, was occupied with collecting the house fee from the dancers before they stepped on stage and made their rounds of hustling the guys for tips. Staying on top of the girls was always Kenya’s job, but she was running late, causing Paris to fill in for her.

  With the clipboard in hand she checked off the names as they paid. Passion, Too Sweet, Addiction, Butter, Fatal Beauty, Tight-n-Right, Temptation, Sugar, Li’l Bit, Lexus, Phat Cat, and lastly Chocolate Bunny’s nasty, big booty, trifling, always on the verge of getting fired for breaking the club rules, had all taken care of their business and were already on the grind, roaming the floor and getting that money.

  “Will you hurry up, London? I’ve gotta get down to the club. We already late as a fuck and plus it’s Friday night, so speed that ass up!” Kenya knocked at the bathroom door three times in an attempt to get her sister to rush things along. “Now come on and stop all that bullshitting around! We gotta bounce unless you staying here! The choice is yours!”

  London was usually the one who was on time, but this was somewhat a special occasion for her. She was gonna come face-to-face with O.T. for the first time since that horrible night they met. London, for some strange reaso
n, couldn’t take her mind off of him. She kept Kenya up the night before asking question after question about his rude demeanor and if he was serious about Paris. Even though London tried her best playing it off, her twin was vibin’ with her and could see right through her game. Kenya didn’t have to twist London’s arm one bit into going to work with her at the strip club she always said was so degrading to women. Especially when she found out O.T. was gonna be on the premises.

  Paris was Kenya’s best friend and it was no way on God’s green earth that she was going to be a part of causing her even a moment’s worth of pain. Blood ain’t always thicker than water, and in this case it couldn’t be truer. So if that meant cock-blocking her sister, then so be it. It would be done. After ten more minutes past by, London exited the bathroom with a brand-new bounce in her step and a huge grin plastered on her face.

  “I don’t know what in the fuck your slick-ass is so slap-happy about. Storm is still out there somewhere hurt and you all hee-hee-ha-ha-ing,” Kenya agitatedly announced. “You act like you don’t even care! Girl, let’s go so I can make this money!”

  “What?”

  “You heard me! Stop smiling and let’s go!”

  “What, so it’s against the law now to smile in Dallas until your drug-dealing boyfriend comes home?” London returned her sister’s sarcasm, giving as good as she got. “Well, excuse me for living!”

  “Listen here, Ms. Thang! While you being so smarted-mouthed and in the mirror primping, in case you have overlooked one damn thing, well, let me remind you, O.T. already has a wifey—Paris—remember her?” Kenya placed both hands on her hips and bucked her eyes. “So if you have any designs on him in any form or fashion, you better forget about it, college girl, and keep that shit straight moving. We clear? Understand?”

  “Whatever, Kenya! I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t like that lowlife, rude thug. That’s more your style.”

  “Yeah, right! Whatever, my ass! Just don’t forget what I just said.” Kenya pushed London’s arm. “He got a girl—my best friend!”

  After the exchange the twin sisters finally left the hotel en route to Alley Cats, where it was destined to be one helluva long night.

  “Hey, Kenya, how are—” With the twins standing before him, Boz, the head of security, couldn’t believe what he was seeing, having the exact same reaction as O.T. and Paris.

  “Close your mouth, Boz, before something flies in it.”

  “But—” He was stunned.

  “I know, silly. This is my twin sister, London. Do me a favor and let her in the office through the back door—and oh, please don’t mention her being here to anyone. Not to the other bouncers, the dancers, or anybody else on the staff. Okay?”

  Boz’s eyes were glued to London as he walked with her around to the rear of the club. He noticed that although she was indeed a mirror image of Kenya’s face, their mannerisms were outrageously miles different. Kenya walked like a panther, seductively on the prowl for the weak, while London took each step with pride and confidence, head held high with an air of arrogance.

  London, perceptive of her surroundings in light of recent events, glanced over, detecting his strange, silly expression. “Is there something wrong? Do I have a glob of snot hanging from my nose or what?” She winked, knowing he was another person in Kenya’s life who failed to know about her existence.

  “Oh, my bad. I didn’t know the boss’s girl had a twin, that’s all.” Boz laughed it off, showing his mouthful of gold-plated teeth. “It ain’t no problem. It’s just bugged out, that’s all.”

  Going inside the strip club’s doors and up the rear stairs, London caught a brief glance at the neon-lit stage. One of the dancers was hanging upside down from the brass pole, while others were sitting backwards in men’s laps grinding, simulating sexual acts. When settled down on the couch in the plush office, her mind began to wonder and she felt saddened. London realized that only a short time ago, her sister Kenya was one of these low-self-esteemed females.

  “Hey, Paris. Sorry I’m late. How are things going so far? All these hoes out here paid?” Kenya found her friend in the dressing room going over some of the house rules for a new dancer named Jordan, who grew up around the way from Paris.

  “Hey, woman! I was just thinking about where the heck your crazy-ass was at.”

  “Girl, you know I’m traveling with a little extra baggage these days,” Kenya replied low-key, referring to her sister.

  “Oh yeah, Kenya, dig that.”

  “So, how things going in here so far? How we looking?”

  Paris finished up schooling the new dancer on the dos and don’ts of the club and went into the hallway, followed by Kenya. “Everything’s everything. We got a full house already and it isn’t even eight yet. I already went in the kitchen and told them to get some more food prepped.”

  “That’s what’s up!” Kenya nodded, feeling positive. “We need all the cheddar that we can scramble up on. We definitely getting closer—especially thanks to you!”

  Paris gave her girl a hug that was cut short by one of the dancers, Chocolate Bunny, who was walking fast, yelling out to one of the bouncers. Her manner was louder and much more ghetto than normal. It was obvious by the way she was waving her hands around and bopping from side to side like her neck was broke, someone had gotten on her bad side, which was almost 100 percent impossible to do, since Chocolate Bunny had an anything-goes policy, aka, “Fuck you—pay me.”

  “Excuse me, Paris. Let me see what in the hell is going on with that dirty-black skank headed this way. You know she always got some drama stirring!”

  Paris was glad that Kenya was finally there to intervene. If it was one female in the entire club that she despised, it was Chocolate Bunny. It was no secret to Paris or any other person that worked in Alley Cats that O.T. had fucked around with her back in the day. And still, every chance that Chocolate Bunny got to get close to O.T., she took advantage, at times rubbing their past “special friendship” in Paris’s face.

  Paris, a nutcase and street soldier in her own right, wanted to kick her black-ass on several occasions and had to be physically held back by some of the other dancers and a bartender. Feeling some sort of way, she often lobbied for Storm or Deacon to fire Chocolate Bunny’s slimeball behind on the spot for her disrespectful antics, but she was one of Alley Cats’s main attractions and made a lot of dough for the club. That meant that Paris had to suck it up for the cause, like it or leave it and be a big girl.

  “What’s the deal? What’s wrong?” Pretending to be sympathetic, Kenya placed her hand on the drama-prone dancer’s sweaty shoulder. “Calm down and tell me! What’s going on?”

  “Hey, Kenya!” Chocolate Bunny looked at her with blood in her eyes. “It’s that old-ass wannabe pimp that y’all had us chillin’ with before. Well, he must be nuts and got me messed all the way up!”

  “Nicole, slow down. Who are you talking about?”

  “Are you fucking crazy, Kenya! Don’t be using my motherfucking government name in this bitch!”

  If it had been any other circumstance that went down and a dancer, especially Chocolate Bunny, had screamed on Kenya like that, moneymaker or not, the bitch would hit the bricks, bottom line. Yet Kenya knew better than to use someone’s real name in the club if they weren’t into broadcasting it themselves. A lot of perverts and stalkers sat around nursing their drinks in hopes of finding out where some of the girls of their dreams lived at and getting a dancer’s legal name would be that gateway. Kenya didn’t mind taking a cop this one instance, because she would’ve felt the same way if someone did it to her back at Heads Up.

  “Damn girl, I’m sorry. It slipped.” Kenya wasn’t fronting, she truly was. “I fucked up. My bad.”

  Chocolate Bunny twisted her candy-apple, bright-red painted lips to the side while pulling her dingy G-string out the crack of her wide ass. She knew that Kenya was rolling with Paris and would like nothing better than to see Chocolate Bunny dead or hurt.
“Yeah, all right then! And to answer your question, I’m talking about that non-tipping, ancient-dressing asshole Royce!”

  “Royce! Royce is in here? Are you sure? Where is he at?” Kenya excitedly scanned the room, hoping she and he could have words.

  “Damn, yeah Kenya, I’m sure!” She pointed toward the rear of the club. “He’s over there with his crew, talking about he about to buy Alley Cats and trying to get free dances. And you know a good ho like me don’t play that free crap no matter who a nigga thinks he is or gonna be! I don’t sell free ass this way!”

  Before Chocolate Bunny could finish her statement, Kenya had abruptly walked away, leaving her standing alone with the bouncer. Oh, my God! Maybe Royce knows something about Storm. They was supposed to all be together when they left and O.T. ain’t say nothing more about him. Kenya spotted Royce dressed in one of his 1975 mack-daddy suits and several of his friends seated in the corner, just as Chocolate Bunny said. They had a few bottles of champagne and were surrounded by dancers falling for his weak lines.

  “Excuse me, Royce. How you doing?”

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Ms. Tasty.”

  “Pardon me.” Kenya assumed, without a doubt, that she must have been hearing Royce incorrectly.

  Royce licked his lips. “Awww. . . Tasty, baby doll, don’t be like that! Come over here closer with your pretty little self.”

  “What did you say?” Kenya felt her world shatter once again. What Royce had just said was hard to digest. No one in Dallas, outside of Storm, O.T., and Deacon knew her as Tasty, not even Paris—that was unless her man had told her.

  “Come on now, sweetness. There’s no reason to be shy with Daddy.” Royce tried rubbing her hand. “I’ll give you double if you give me one of your special dances or better yet, go hit that stage. I heard you extra good with a pole between your legs.”